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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928755">very cold feet and even colder hands</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziz/pseuds/Aziz'>Aziz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>something meaty for the cold hands [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>100 percent self-indulgent, Developing Relationship, Emotional Sex, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Geralt struggles with his emotions BUT he's working on it!!!, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, Huddling For Warmth, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Pillow Talk, Sharing a Bed, Snowballing, The Road To Kaer Morhen, a sequel but can be read as a stand-alone bcs this is basically just a fluffy smutfest, eskel lambert vesemir yennefer and ciri all make an appearance, no beta we die like witchers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:49:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,589</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928755</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziz/pseuds/Aziz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As winter looms just around the corner, Jaskier tries to settle into this thing that is starting to blossom between him and Geralt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>something meaty for the cold hands [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657666</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>743</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>very cold feet and even colder hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingkoblih/gifts">kingkoblih</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245916">something meaty for the main course</a>, but can definitely be read as a stand-alone. this fic picks up right where smftmc ended, after their first night together.<br/>the title is a lyric from kingkoblih's song that I just love WAY too much.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Geralt found him in a small tavern in a backwater town, performing bland, tasteless songs for a terrible audience, apologized and suggested that Jaskier could spend the winter with him and his little destined family at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier had accepted only to start thinking about leaving Geralt again as soon as he took the first few steps by the witcher’s side.</p><p>He has loved Geralt for so long now that the thought of watching him and Yennefer be happy together only brought him dread and twisted and pushed something very sharp deeper into his insides. So he counted on leaving as soon as spring comes, or Nilfgaard stops its progress further north into the Continent, whichever will come first, because he wouldn’t be able to <em> bear </em> seeing Geralt give Yennefer what Jaskier has always wanted to have, day after day. It made him feel ungrateful and selfish, but it was the only thing he could do to keep his poor foolish heart intact.</p><p>At least, it felt like it.</p><p>It felt like it, until the night Geralt let him ask for whatever he wanted and gave him exactly that - until Geralt kissed him and stroked him to completion, took him to yet-unknown heights of pleasure with <em> only </em> his hand, let him unravel in his arms, and told him Yennefer is but a memory - </p><p>And Jaskier <em> cried </em> that night, big, happy tears. In the morning, Jaskier does not plan on leaving anymore.</p><p>They dress, pack up and eat in easy silence, broken only by the occasional lone word and acknowledging grunt - “Morning,” whispered in the dim light inside the tent, into Geralt’s chest, and the soft “Hmm,” that came in response; “Here,” uttered as Jaskier handed Geralt the rolled up and tied up bedroll and Geralt’s warm “Hmm,” as he took it from him to fasten it to Roach’s saddlebags; “Thanks,” said as Geralt handed him a bag of dried fruit and the “Hmm,” that let Jaskier know he is welcome - like all the times before, except it’s <em> not</em>. Jaskier feels something has shifted. Feels it in the lightness of his heart and in the fact that the tiniest of smiles accompanies all of Geralt’s grunts.</p><p>There’s still something left to be said, but right now, Jaskier feels content to just <em> be</em>. To walk the hard, frozen road with Geralt leading Roach by his side, to talk and know that Geralt is listening to him and not even trying to hide it anymore. Especially because Geralt kissed him good morning, slow and sweet, and kissed him before starting to walk, quick and gentle. He knows <em> they </em> are now different, and he knows they will talk about it in their own time - they always do. Rather, as winter looms just around the corner, Jaskier tries to settle into this <em> thing </em> that is starting to blossom between him and Geralt.</p><p>It is still hard to believe. It's hard to believe that Geralt has let Yennefer go, after that elaborate dance they danced around each other, after chasing up the mountains and down the valleys after her, after binding her life to his. They were destined for each other - the perfect, text-book romance, a man who thought nobody would ever love him and a woman who never thought she would love anyone but herself, both proven wrong by the all-powerful hand of fate - but then again, Geralt was never one to submit to destiny. He fought tooth and nail against it and stopped only when destiny came running to him in the form of a terrified, twice-orphaned, lost princess. So maybe, maybe it makes sense, that Geralt has chosen him - the person not bound to him by <em> destiny</em>, but by choice, by sheer <em> fucking </em> strength of will, the person that latched onto him years ago and has refused to leave.</p><p>He tries to get used to it - to breathing next to Geralt, walking next to Geralt, existing next to Geralt when he is <em> his </em> and not Yennefer's. Tries to get used to being Geralt's, openly and out-loud, not in secret, his affections admitted, not hidden away and swallowed down.</p><p>Jaskier feels his anxious soul calm down, and he starts to settle, slowly at first.</p><p> </p><p>The sun travels lazily across the sky, close to the horizon, like it does not have the strength to climb any higher. It does little to warm them up.</p><p>At one point, Jaskier takes his lute out of its case, and he starts playing. He weaves chords together as they come to him, and he cannot help but feel that they sound <em> hopeful</em>, in some way. He hums along to the new melody. For a moment, he considers adding words, but then decides against it. There's no need for words. Not in this one.</p><p>He can't play as long as he usually did when they travelled. The cold bites into his fingers, makes the strings hard and sharp under frost-tender skin. When he cannot take it anymore, he puts the lute back into the case. He knows he could play all day and all night, until his fingers were raw and bleeding and he was tired and famished and thirsty, if the situation called for that, but there is no need to render his hands useless for the next few days right now.</p><p>There are much better things he would like to do with his hands in the upcoming days. Run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, for example. Lace their fingers together, hold his hand. Grab onto him in the throes of passion, run his hands all over Geralt’s body and feel his bare skin under them, trace Geralt’s scars with a feather-light touch of his fingertips. Wrap them around Geralt’s massive, <em> gorgeous </em> cock.</p><p>He stuffs his cold hands into the pockets of his trousers, to try to warm them up a little, or at least chase away the almost painful numbness that he feels in them.</p><p>“That was a very nice song,” Geralt says lowly beside him. “I liked it.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs. “I thought you hated my music.” During their years together, it was always, <em>“Shut up, Jaskier,” </em> and <em> “Keep quiet, Jaskier,” </em> and <em> “That’s not how it happened, Jaskier,” </em> and <em> “I would like a moment of blessed silence, Jaskier,” </em> when Jaskier played. From that, Jaskier had deduced, early on, that Geralt does not like his songs, his singing. He actually had a sneaking suspicion that Geralt did not like <em> any </em> music, which was actually rather comforting, because it would mean that his distaste was less of a <em> Jaskier thing</em>, but more of a music-in-general thing. He got used to the fact that Geralt did not like his songs. He did not feel disappointed when all he got from the witcher after presenting him with the newest ballad about his heroics was a disinterested <em> “hmm”</em>. He did <em> not. </em></p><p>“I don’t,” Geralt murmurs. “I didn’t. Hate your music. I didn’t like it when you lied about me, but I like your music.” He pauses. It seems like he is thinking about something, very hard. “I like the melodies you compose. I like your voice. I think some of your lyrics are very clever.” He keeps watching the road as he talks, almost off-handedly dismantling everything Jaskier has thought he knows, everything he has believed about Geralt’s opinions. </p><p>“You know,” Jaskier says, only half-joking, “you don’t have to butter me up for me to sleep with you again. I am very much open to the prospect without any further convincing. So there’s no need to lie.”</p><p>“I am not lying,” Geralt insists. “It’s - It’s <em> true</em>, I like it when you play.” He stops and so does Roach. “Come here.”</p><p>Jaskier takes one step forward, and suddenly, he’s eighteen again. He’s young and horny and falling hard and fast for someone he can’t have; he’s brazen and stupid and reckless. He’s eighteen, and when Geralt - who he has only known for little under half an hour at this point - tells him, <em> “come here,”, </em> Jaskier walks up, wide-eyed, eager, unsuspecting - <em> hopeful </em> - like an obedient puppy, only for Geralt to punch him in the gut - punch the wind out of him, punch the balance out of him.</p><p>Punch all of his reason and logic out of him as well, possibly, because no sane man would just pull himself upright, take a deep breath, walk it off and keep following Geralt like he did - but then again, his heart (and, by extension, his dick) couldn't make a good decision to save his life, so maybe Geralt didn’t really knock the sense out of him, because it weren’t there in the first place.</p><p>The memory washes over him. He shivers, just the tiniest bit, from the intensity of it. After two decades, the memories sometimes get a little fuzzy, a little blurry; ordinary days spent with or without Geralt bleed into each other. But this one day is special - this was the first time he saw Geralt, the first time they talked, the first adventure they had been on, the first time Geralt had saved him. He still has the elven lute to remember it by, every single day, remember the single most important thing that has ever happened to him. That day is special, along with a handful of others - he cherishes every moment he has spent with Geralt so far, but there are days that stand out more than the others. That stay vivid in his mind, even years and years later. Their first meeting. The Cintran betrothal. The djinn incident. The dragon hunt. Geralt’s apology. Last night. And others. Some even entirely ordinary, but etched into his memory just the same, just because the light hit Geralt’s face in a particularly complimenting way, or he almost smiled, or Jaskier heard a twinge of affection in his trademark hum.</p><p>And just as quickly as it comes, it vanishes. Jaskier is forty one. He’s mature, or, at the very least, <em> more mature than he was</em>. He’s still a little brazen, a little reckless, but he has learned to pick his battles, has learned to try and be careful with his poor, bruised heart. He’s still hopelessly, madly, deeply in love, with the same person, but he has learned that he can, in fact, have them. He still walks up, without hesitation, without a second thought, like an obedient puppy, eager, hopeful, trusting. Although the memory of the punch has <em> just </em> flashed through his mind, he believes Geralt won’t hurt him. Gods, he does not even think about the possibility, not even as an afterthought. He takes the second step and suddenly, he’s standing right in Geralt’s space, their bodies almost touching.</p><p>Geralt raises his hand, slowly, and puts it on Jaskier’s cheek. He’s wearing leather gloves, but Jaskier can still feel the heat of his open palm underneath. He leans into it on instinct. Geralt touching him like this, with tenderness in his eyes and care in his motions, is so <em> new </em> to him, and he finds it he likes it, very much. He’s been starving for it for the better part of twenty years, and he craves it, like a drowning man craves air. He’s hungry for it, and he intends to snag every bit and piece thrown his way, intends to swallow down all of it. </p><p>“I like it when you play,” Geralt repeats. “I mean it.” His thumb caresses Jaskier’s cheekbone and Geralt’s golden eyes get distracted by the movement for a second, before looking straight into Jaskier’s cornflower blues. “It makes long stretches of road go by quicker. It makes the road feel less lonely. But most of all,” he says, almost a whisper, “I like how happy you are when you sing.”</p><p>Jaskier’s heart skips a beat or two. Geralt likes his music. Geralt likes his singing. <em> Geralt likes him happy</em>. It should come as no surprise, since Geralt has told him he feels for him just a few hours ago, but - but Jaskier still kind of doesn’t believe it, after <em> twenty three </em> years of waiting and wanting, and it feels really, <em> really </em> nice to hear Geralt say it.</p><p>He has no idea how to respond. About two decades ago, Geralt had knocked the air out of his lungs with an expertly-aimed punch. Now, he has managed to do the same with just his words. This time, the assault feels gentle. Like a lover’s caress.</p><p>“Can I kiss you?” tumbles out of him at last, graceless and unrefined, as far from how charming and suave Jaskier usually is as it can get.</p><p>Geralt gives him a soft almost-smile and kisses him.</p><p>The kiss is chaste at first, lips barely brushing, breath warm on the other’s face. Then, Jaskier grabs at Geralt’s armour under his cloak, pulls him closer and deepens the kiss, teasing his tongue against Geralt’s lips until he opens his mouth and kisses Jaskier back fervently. His motions are slow but thorough. Exact, full of intent. Geralt is good kisser - probably because he has had a few more decades to polish his technique, with different other lovers. Perhaps, Jaskier should feel jealous. He does not. Some of these lovers are probably long-dead. He's just enjoying the usage of this near-perfect technique <em> on him</em>. He feels almost honoured, to have all that practice, all that time, all the stories - and each and every lover has a story, <em> is </em> a story, and Jaskier knows that - in full effect, put to work to make Jaskier feel <em> wonderful</em>. His hands travel upwards, to Geralt's face.</p><p>Geralt breaks the kiss, slowly. Jaskier blinks at him and Geralt offers him a smile. "Your hands are cold," he says. "Mind if I hold them? To warm them up?" </p><p>"Of course. To warm them up," Jaskier nods lamely. "But - aren't you leading Roach?"</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow, amused. "I have two hands."</p><p>"Ah, yes, right."</p><p>Jaskier slips his hand into Geralt's free one. Their fingers intertwine effortlessly, almost naturally. They walk on, hand in hand.</p><p> </p><p>When it starts getting dark, they stop and make camp. Jaskier helps with the fire. His hands are more sure today, but he’s also full of anticipation what the night will bring. He hopes that he’ll get a repeat of yesterday - hopes that Geralt will hold him close and kiss him all over.</p><p>Oh, he almost feels eighteen again. He remembers that first night clearly. He was waiting for Geralt to pounce on him ever since he first sat down with him in that little tavern in Posada, but then the whole day went by and nothing had happened. He had not slept, hoping that maybe, Geralt would change his mind in the middle of the night and thoroughly ravish him. But in the morning, they just had packed up and kept on walking and Jaskier was so <em> disappointed</em>.</p><p>Back then, he had wanted a quick and dirty fuck on the ground by the side of the road. He had wanted it <em> hard </em> and <em> deep </em> and <em> fast </em> and no other way.</p><p>It’s not that he doesn’t want<em> hard-deep-fast </em> anymore. <em> Sweet Melitele, </em> he wants Geralt to wreck him, ruin him for everybody else, wants Geralt to leave marks and bites and scratches and bruises, wants Geralt to be rough and feral, wants to be pinned down and used. But these days, he’ll just as gladly take a sweet, gentle lovemaking. And he wants a lot of cuddling after.</p><p>“What are you thinking about?” Geralt says, and his breath ghosts over the shell of Jaskier’s ear. His side is warm where they are pressed against each other in front of the fire.</p><p>“Nothing,” Jaskier replies and kisses him. “Nothing important.”</p><p>“Well, then, if you want to - “</p><p>“Of <em> course </em> I want to,” Jaskier blurts out without even hearing how the sentence ends, but he’s very confident in his Geralt-reading skills, so he allows himself to presume. “I <em> always </em> want to. With <em> you</em>, I’ll <em> always </em> want to.” He probably shouldn’t be making any promises, but he feels in his bones, in his heart, in his <em> cock</em>, that he’ll be able to keep this one. They say that witchers’ stamina is unparalleled, but Jaskier has been able to keep up with Geralt on the road, so he should, theoretically be able to keep up with him in bed as well.</p><p>Geralt kisses him, quick and chaste, before standing up and tugging Jaskier towards their little tent.</p><p>Jaskier lies down on his back on their shared bedroll and Geralt positions himself between his thighs, towering over him. Their cocks brush together, already hard, but still, regrettably, clothed. They’ll change that soon enough.</p><p>Jaskier crashes their lips together. <em> Gods</em>, he is so hungry for this. After a twenty-year fast, the only thing he wants to do is to absolutely <em> gorge </em> himself on kissing Geralt. He tastes like dinner and smoke - tastes like <em> home</em>. Kissing him <em> feels </em> like coming home, after a very long journey.</p><p>Geralt’s big hands cradle Jaskier’s face, keeping him close. Jaskier has his arms wound around Geralt’s neck. And they kiss, kiss, <em> kiss</em>, Geralt rocking his groin gently against Jaskier’s, making the bard inhale sharply through his nose mid-kiss.</p><p>“Wait,” Jaskier pants, breath stolen from him with viciously sweet kisses. “I want to see you. Want to see your face.”</p><p>Geralt lets go of him to dig around in his pack. After a moment - during which Jaskier lies hard and aching, <em> weak and wanting </em> - right when Jaskier starts to open his mouth to tell Geralt to drop it and to fuck him in the darkness like the last time, Geralt turns to him with something small in his hands. He makes a sign, <em> Igni</em>, Jaskier recognizes, and then there’s a small fire that bathes the inside of the tent in a soft yellow light. It turns out that Geralt has found a small tin of a fat of some sort, and it burns slow, but bright enough. Exactly as bright as Jaskier would have wanted it, if he thought he had a choice.</p><p>“This good enough for you?” Geralt says, teasing, as he sets the small, improvised lamp down, far enough from the wall of the tent and far enough from them both that nothing catches on fire, unless Jaskier and Geralt get way too rowdy.</p><p>Like this - up close and in the firelight - Geralt looks beautiful. Well, he looks beautiful <em> all </em> the time, fighting monsters, bathing, brooding, but right now, he looks other-wordly and unreal. The yellow light makes his pale skin glow. His irises are pretty thin rings around his dark, blown-wide pupils, and they glitter, like actual gold, like priceless jewelry that sits on the delicate throats of countesses and duchesses and <em> queens</em>. Although he has not washed his hair in a few days, it's relatively clean - devoid of any monster guts or dried mud - and the white of it turns gold as well. <em> Gods </em> , he just - he just looks <em> so pretty</em>, so <em> luminous</em>, like he's the godsforsaken <em> sun </em> - he might as well be, he's so beautiful it hurts to look at him sometimes, he's so beautiful that it blinds Jaskier at times. But the most beautiful thing about him <em> right now</em>, Jaskier thinks, <em> at this very moment</em>, is the fact that he's <em> Jaskier' </em> . Is the fact that Jaskier can look, and touch, and <em> want </em> as he pleases and not worry about Geralt turning him down, about Geralt discovering his feelings and finding them <em> ugly</em>, about Geralt breaking his heart.</p><p>Because Geralt has already done that - broke his heart, shattered it to pieces, speared it on his sword - and he <em> came back </em> to put it back together, to heal it, and Jaskier hopes, Jaskier <em> believes</em>, that he won't do it again - and if he ever does, that he'll come back <em> again </em>.</p><p>"You think too much," Geralt says. "Stop thinking for a moment."</p><p>“Make me,” Jaskier smirks.</p><p>Geralt kisses him again. He pushes his tongue inside, deep, and runs it along Jaskier’s teeth. Blindly, he undoes Jaskier’s breeches and one big, hot hand slips into his smallclothes and fondles him. Jaskier gasps into Geralt’s mouth and his hips instinctively buck up.</p><p>He usually has much more control over himself. He’s used to having sex, enough that he doesn’t come fast, but rather at just the right moment, but <em> something </em> about Geralt makes him <em> lose it </em>, like this is his first roll in the hay with a young, shy stablehand. It might be the fact that Geralt is the most beautiful person on the Continent. Or it might be the fact that Jaskier has been waiting for this for twenty three years. Or it might be the fact that he is utterly, hopelessly, devastatingly in love with Geralt, and every single touch is like thunder and lighting, like fire and ice filling his veins.</p><p>Geralt takes him out and starts stroking him at a languid pace, no hurry, and starts kissing and nipping along Jaskier’s jaw. He bites and licks at Jaskier’s ear, which has Jaskier shuddering and tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair. Geralt continues lower, mouthing at his throat and sucking lovemarks onto the pale skin of it.</p><p>“Mine,” he breathes between the kisses, “you are mine, buttercup, mine, my little lark, <em> mine </em> and <em> mine alone</em>, and I’ll have you for as long as you’ll have me.”</p><p>There is reverence in his voice, a lovely desperation. Weakness and want. Passion, gentle but hungry. Fondness and tenderness and <em> yearning</em>. And finally, Jaskier realizes - they weren't <em> sleeping together</em>, they weren't <em> fucking</em>, no - they were <em> making love</em>.</p><p>It is like a punch in the face. The emotions hit him like a wave, like a tide, roll over him rapturously - fill his lungs, drown him, make him choke, and then, at last, pick up and wash away everything else, and he's left drenched, trying to catch his breath and regain his footing. <em> Gods, Geralt is making love to him. </em>The thought squeezes his heart, squeezes his lungs, in a very gentle, beautiful way.</p><p>"Oh," he breathes out.</p><p>"This okay?" Geralt asks, worry in his voice. He slows down, but he doesn't <em> stop </em>, and that's the most important thing right now.</p><p>"<em>Yes</em>," Jaskier gasps, "gods, yes, yes, <em> yes</em>, fuck, it's okay," it's <em> fucking perfect </em> is what it is, and he feels - he feels like he might cry again, like he did the first night, he feels his eyes water, feels the tears sting his eyes, and he does not want to cry, because he's happy, and Geralt is handling him <em> so well</em>, making him feel <em> so good</em>, and there's nothing to cry about, <em> not really </em> -</p><p>But Geralt must be able to smell the unshed tears, must be able to notice how Jaskier's eyes glimmer wetly with them, because he whispers, "It's okay," hands tightening around him, reassuring, holding him and stroking him, <em> just tight enough</em>, <em> just fast enough </em>, "you don't have to be ashamed, not with me, <em> never </em> with me, little lark - " lips covering Jaskier's in a slow, heartfelt kiss, "I want you and I want <em> all of you </em> - "</p><p>And Jaskier lets go - he sobs and cries, hot tears running down his hot cheeks, crying because Geralt is <em> making love to him</em>, already has once without Jaskier noticing, <em> realizing </em> just <em> how deeply </em> Geralt feels for him, just how much he loves him, crying because being with Geralt and sleeping with him is <em> entirely different </em> from being with Geralt and making love with him, crying because Geralt does not mind - he pants and gasps for breath, small sounds getting caught in his throat, pushed out of him with the movement of Geralt’s hand on him - and Jaskier feels <em> so much </em> , he’s overwhelmed, drowning in happiness and pleasure, and he must look like a mess, must sound like one, must sound utterly broken, sobbing and <em> wheezing</em>, but Geralt says he doesn’t care so neither does he and then, suddenly - </p><p>with a clever twist of Geralt’s wrist -</p><p>Jaskier loses it. He chokes out Geralt’s name as he comes into his hand, vision going white for a split second. Geralt strokes him through it, until Jaskier starts shivering from over-stimulation.</p><p>Geralt kisses him, swallows down his heavy breaths, and Jaskier cannot help himself and he whispers - face red and cheeks wet and eyes puffy and cock spent and heart full - he whispers, between pants and kisses, whispers into Geralt’s lips, whispers: “I love you.”</p><p>Geralt tenses, just for a short moment, and he keeps kissing Jaskier, a little bit more hungry, a little bit more desperate - a little bit more tongue, a little bit more teeth. Insistent. Drinking Jaskier in like he’s a man dying of thirst and Jaskier is a goblet of the best wine. “Jaskier,” he says, voice low and gravely, and full of emotion, “<em>Jaskier</em>, songbird - “</p><p>“I know,” Jaskier smiles. “Don’t worry, I know.” Even though Geralt’s voice and his gaze are brimming with affection, brimming with <em> love</em>, love he feels for Jaskier, he’s still Geralt - he’s still a witcher, and he has spent most of his life <em> not-feeling </em> so he’s having a hard time dealing with his emotions, recognizing them, understanding them, sorting them out, <em> trusting them</em>, voicing them - and Jaskier knows that, Jaskier understands that. He’s still Geralt, and Jaskier <em> knows him</em>, he <em> understands him</em>.</p><p>He also knows that Geralt’s feelings for him are deep, deep enough for this not to feel like a rejection, but rather an admission of a flaw. A confession of a fear. Jaskier knows that’s what Geralt’s silent kisses are, not a <em> “I don’t feel the same,” </em> but a <em> “I feel too much and can’t say it and I’m sorry so please don’t leave me, not again,”, </em> he knows and he does not mind waiting for Geralt, does not mind waiting <em> with </em> Geralt. “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to say it - I just wanted you to hear it. Wanted you to know it. Wanted to hear myself say it, finally.”</p><p>He can feel Geralt breathe out in relief against his lips before he kisses Jaskier again, grateful.</p><p>“Come here,” Jaskier heaves, when they break apart. “Come closer,” he makes grabby hands at the witcher, “need to touch you - need to feel you - need to make you come.”</p><p>He has not <em> seen </em> Geralt come, only heard it and felt it, and he’s looking forward to changing that. They shuffle around in the small tent until they sit face to face, Jaskier <em> almost </em> in Geralt’s lap but not really, so that he has easy access and the angle isn’t awkward. He wraps one hand around Geralt’s cock, the other teasing, drawing patterns on Geralt’s wonderfully meaty thigh.</p><p>“You fit so nicely into the palm of my hand,” he drawls, even though his fingers can only barely encircle Geralt’s thickness, but then again, that does not mean it’s not a <em> nice fit</em>, “like you were made for me, like I was made for you.”</p><p>Geralt groans as Jaskier starts stroking him. “Yes,” he breathes. “<em>Yes</em>.” Geralt thinks it too, that Jaskier’s hand on his cock is a nice fit, the best far and wide, that Jaskier’s hand on his cock is <em> heaven</em>.</p><p>Geralt noses at Jaskier's throat, inhales the scent of his arousal, of his <em> satisfaction</em>. He nips and licks lovingly, tasting sweat and skin and tears, as Jaskier's hand moves on him. His breath comes heavy and hot against Jaskier's sensitive, kiss-wet skin, making Jaskier shudder. Geralt's fingers tangle in his hair, not tugging, but definitely holding on.</p><p>"Jaskier," Geralt says, softly, and it drips from his lips like a prayer, spoken only for himself in the small space between his hot mouth and Jaskier's hot skin. "Jaskier, <em> Jaskier</em>, my little songbird, my beautiful lark."</p><p>If Jaskier were a younger man - if he were eighteen again, just spreading his wings, wandering from town to town, from tavern to tavern, singing silly, bad songs, his eyes caught by a huge, beautiful man sitting alone, <em> brooding</em>, in the corner - he might get hard again just from the way Geralt says his name, like it is something very important, something to be treasured, breathless with pleasure - but he is not. He is middle-aged, and it feels like there are <em> centuries </em> between him and the young man that had decided to follow a witcher to the ends of the world, rather than decades. He has changed so much during the time he spent with Geralt, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He would choose life with Geralt, over and over again, every single time, and he wouldn't change a thing, would take all the hardship, the hurt and the pain and the heartbreak, without batting an eyelash, would savour every little moment, still desperately hoping - <em> knowing</em>, in the deepest depths of his heart - that after years and years of orbiting, they would finally collide and burn like the brightest supernova.</p><p>Geralt kisses him on the mouth. He presses their foreheads together, resting against Jaskier as he strokes his cock, breath spilling out of his open mouth and ghosting over Jaskier's lips. They lock eyes, and there is softness in the melted gold of Geralt's eyes, there is warmth and affection, there is adoration, there is devotion, there are all the things Geralt feels but is too scared to speak out loud, and Jaskier is eternally grateful that Geralt trusts him enough to be this vulnerable with him - his cock in Jaskier's hand and his emotions written visibly in his face.</p><p>"Jaskier," Geralt says, grunts, growls, <em> prays</em>, and he comes, eyebrows knitted together, the muscles of his belly tightening, his spend spilling into Jaskier's hand and onto his stomach.</p><p>"I've got you," Jaskier murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth. "I've got you, my wolf."</p><p>Geralt takes him by his wrist. Slowly, he brings his stained hand to his lips, and he licks it clean, laps up his own come with his tongue. And <em> fuck</em>, if that isn't the hottest, most erotic thing Jaskier has ever seen -</p><p>Geralt looks into his eyes, questioning, careful, almost shy. Jaskier needs a moment to understand what Geralt is asking for, but when he does, he nods, short and quick, barely a movement - but he knows that Geralt catches it, that he picks up even on the tiniest details.</p><p>So, having gained permission, having gained consent, Geralt leans forward and kisses Jaskier slowly and deeply, pushing his come into Jaskier's mouth. Jaskier tastes him, salty and bitter. His cock gives an enthusiastic twitch, but the rest of his body is way too worn out.</p><p>They pull apart. Jaskier swallows, and Geralt fetches a cloth to clean up the rest of their mess. They lie down, wrapped up in each other, as the light of their little lamp slowly dies out.</p><p>"How did it feel?" Geralt asks, "To finally say it?"</p><p>Jaskier knows what he's talking about. "Good," he sighs, tired and content. "It made me feel - it made me feel free. It made me feel honest."</p><p>"I'm sorry you couldn't say it sooner," Geralt murmurs into his hair.</p><p>"I could."</p><p>"I'm sorry my behaviour made you decide not to," Geralt corrects.</p><p>"Yeah," Jaskier whispers. "Me too. But that's all in the past now. What matters is that I can say it now."</p><p>"You can say whatever you want to me," Geralt says. "I won't leave because you say too much. I will cherish every word you speak."</p><p>"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier tips his head back and kisses him. "I love you."</p><p>Geralt doesn't answer, but he pulls Jaskier closer until there's absolutely no space between them, not even a tiny pocket of air, until skin is pressed flush against skin. Jaskier knows what it means, and his heart swells with it.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier awakes a few hours later. His mind is heavy with sleep. It’s still dark outside, and dead quiet. There’s no wind, no animals, nothing. Absolutely quiet. And beside Jaskier, Geralt is breathing softly, his chest rising and falling under Jaskier’s palm, under his head. They are huddled in blankets, but the cold still licks at Jaskier’s ears and his nose. The coldness of his nose is really uncomfortable, so he shifts his head and rubs it against Geralt’s warm skin, not really thinking about it.</p><p>A big hand strokes his hair. He must have woken Geralt up with his cold nose. “Sorry,” Jaskier mumbles sleepily. “Wasn’t thinking.”</p><p>“I was awake,” Geralt says, barely a whisper. In the quiet of the night, there is no need to be loud. They hear each other just fine. “I was.. thinking.”</p><p>“‘Bout what?” Jaskier asks into Geralt’s skin.</p><p>“About what you said.”</p><p>Jaskier is suddenly wide awake. Geralt has been thinking about his confession, for who knows how long now. Did he even fall asleep? Jaskier <em> needs </em> to hear what Geralt has to say about it, every single syllable, every single vowel and consonant, needs to hear every pause and every change of tone, so he strains his ears so that nothing escapes him. “Yeah?”</p><p>“I was wondering - how long did you want to say it for?" </p><p>Jaskier wishes he could pinpoint the exact moment. Wishes there was some kind of an <em> oh-fuck-me </em> realization, like his insides twisting painfully when he saw Geralt fucking Yennefer for the first time or his heart swelling when Geralt saved him from being eaten by a monster. It would be very romantic, he thinks. Ballad-worthy. But it’s just his rotten luck that he had settled into loving Geralt - <em> really loving </em> - gradually, slowly, naturally. "For about a decade, give or take." </p><p>Geralt… chuckles. Jaskier has anticipated he could do a whole lot of things, but <em> laughing </em> wasn’t actually one of them. Probably because Geralt laughed so little, which was a shame, really, because it was a beautiful sound - a reality of which Jaskier is currently being reminded of, if only his hopeless pining weren’t the source of the witcher’s amusement.</p><p>“Hey,” he pokes him in the ribs, “what's so funny about that?” </p><p>“Nothing, my lark,” Geralt whispers and pulls him closer by his waist, pressing a kiss into his hair. “It’s just that - that this whole time, every day, I was waiting for you to come to your senses and finally leave my side,” he says, and now Jaskier wants to laugh. Wants to laugh until his sides hurt, because that is the most absurd thing he has ever heard. “Waiting for you to finally stop smelling of arousal, but rather stink of fear when you look at me, and then pack up your things and leave and not look back. I was waiting for the day we meet at a market after months apart and you don't run up to me, you just avert your gaze and pretend not to know me.”</p><p>And Jaskier really would laugh at how stupid that sounds, but Geralt sounds terribly vulnerable. He has opened up and Jaskier does not want to scare him off. “But I never did,” he murmurs. “I could never stop following you, I could never stay away. I just kept loving you more.”</p><p>They lie in silence, Geralt holding Jaskier tight. They are warm under the covers, and Jaskier’s nose is finally body-temperature. His eyelids feel heavy and he’s almost drifting off again, when Geralt speaks up once more.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into Jaskier’s hair, kissing the crown of his head.</p><p>“What for?” </p><p>Geralt sighs, tired and world-weary and as frustrated as he can be in the middle of the night. “That I can’t say it. That you can’t hear me say it.”</p><p>Jaskier smiles, despite himself, even though Geralt can’t see it. “It’s okay, Geralt,” he reassures him. “It’s okay. You don’t need to say it, not now, not tomorrow, not in a week, not ever. I don’t mind waiting, and I think - ” he pauses, hesitant to lay himself bare like that, but then he remembers that Geralt has been holding his heart in his palm for <em> two decades</em>, so if he really wanted, he would be able to read it like an open book anyways. “I think I’ll take whatever you give me. I think I can live the rest of my life without you saying it, if you don’t want to.”</p><p>Above him, Geralt groans, almost tortured. “But I do. I <em> do </em> want to. It just - gets lodged in my throat and I can’t get it out. If I could, I would rip it out of my body, I would carve it out of my flesh, but <em> something </em> inside of me is so <em> paralyzed </em> with fear - “</p><p>Jaskier blinks. That’s it? “Well, if you <em> do </em> want to say it,” he whispers, hopeful and decisive, “then we’ll just sit around and wait for it to worm its way out. <em> Together</em>. And I’ll look after you. I’ll smother your fear with love, I’ll calm that terrified animal inside of you, I’ll help you pry your heart open. <em> I'll take care of you</em>.”</p><p>Geralt scoffs. “It's rotten work.”</p><p><em> Rotten work</em>. It’s a pain in the ass to untangle Geralt’s hair when it is stuck together with monster entrails, and there are a few stains on his clothing that are <em> impossible </em> to wash out, no matter how hard Jaskier tries, and he sometimes pricks his fingers when he’s sewing up a hole in Geralt’s tunic, and there are days when Geralt doesn’t talk or even grunt, so Jaskier can only <em> guess </em> what Geralt wants him to do, and Geralt is bad with emotions - but he’s getting better, Jaskier has to give him that - and he always expects others to break his heart so he lashes out to break theirs first. “No, it's not,” Jaskier says, and he means it. Geralt is worth it, he’s <em> so </em> worth it, and not only to Jaskier - to Yennefer, and to Ciri, and to Nenneke, and probably more. Geralt <em> deserves </em> love and care. Even if he is a bit difficult at times.</p><p>“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt shakes his head in disbelief. “I'm a mess, can't you see?”</p><p>Jaskier tilts his head back. In the darkness, Geralt’s eyes glow, gold and gentle. He cups Geralt’s cheek with his hand. “<em>Darling</em>, now your mess is mine.”</p><p>He kisses Geralt, slowly and with care. Because at this very moment, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, <em> the Butcher of Blaviken</em>, is something very fragile. And Jaskier will handle him with care.</p><p>They move against each other lazily, barely touching. The rustling of cloth and their heavy breathing are the only sounds in the early, <em> early </em> morning. And when it all quiets down, they fall back asleep, warm and content.</p><p> </p><p>When they set out, his mind drifts back to the song he had composed yesterday. He didn’t feel like it needed words, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe the song <em> wants </em> words, it’s just that Jaskier has to be extraordinarily careful and patient when trying to coax them out of it. Maybe he needs to carve them out, gently, with the utmost love, like a sculptor, or a carpenter.</p><p><em> Maybe</em>. </p><p>He writes the words down as they walk, he’s used to that. He can write down lyrics (and notes, for that matter), in nearly any position, both with his right and his left hand, and with his mouth, and with his right foot. The cold stings at his fingers, but Jaskier is on a mission to make this song open up to him, so he pays it no mind. He plays and he writes and his hands hurt, but his heart feels lighter with every word he writes down. And he feels the relief coming from the song <em> itself </em> as well, feels how lighter it feels now that it can <em> speak</em>.</p><p>He doesn’t sing the words out loud. Instead, he hums substituting sounds. After all that time writing songs, his sense of rhythm and rhyme and timing is so impeccable he can do this kind of thing and have it work for him, most of the time. He writes the words quietly because he does not want them scaring Geralt. Geralt has said that he won’t leave because Jaskier will say too much, but he didn’t say anything about the case that Jaskier <em> sings too much </em>. Jaskier plans to keep this one song for himself - and maybe one other listener - at least, for the time being. For the upcoming decade, perhaps. But the point is: he doesn’t want to scare Geralt by making him think he is going to sing about their intimate relationship. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. And he also wants to surprise him. So he writes quietly. He’ll tell Geralt all of that when the song’s finished.</p><p>In the evening, when Geralt goes hunting, he goes over the tricky passages in a half-voice. The song smooths out quickly, which should not be a surprise, since it is, once again, inspired by his biggest muse. Oh, he has written so many songs about Geralt, but the dense witcher has only ever noticed the ones that had addressed him by his full name or his moniker, not the ones about beautiful strong maidens with hair like silver or the ones about burly men with golden eyes, and definitely not the one about a terrifying wolf devouring a poor, helpless nightingale.</p><p><em> “A little broken, a little new, </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> we are the impact and the glue.” </em></p><p>Yes. There were words in this one, <em> true</em>, beautiful words, and all it took was just a little effort, a little gentleness, to get them to come out.</p><p>Jaskier thinks that maybe, Geralt is a song.</p><p> </p><p>They travel in a rhythm - they wake up, they pack up, they walk. When the sun starts to lean towards the horizon, they stop and make camp. They make love, pleasuring each other with their hands and mouths and thighs, and when they are both spent they huddle close together under the covers to trap their body heat between them. Sometimes, they talk, whispering back and forth - sometimes, they are quiet. They fall asleep tangled together. When the night is restless, they bring each other off again, <em> almost </em> awake but not really. Then, when the dawn comes, it’s time for a reprise.</p><p>It takes them nearly another week of travel to reach the valley and to finally see the towers of Kaer Morhen in the distance, but when they do, Jaskier’s heart leaps at the sight.</p><p>The keep looks <em> majestic</em>. There are a few half-demolished walls, but the whole place feels terribly <em> old </em> and brims with magic and <em> power</em>. It looks exactly like Jaskier had imagined it. The pinkish late-afternoon light bounces off the hard stone and Jaskier already finds himself thinking about <em> words </em> and <em> rhymes</em>. He won’t write a song for a building, no - but perhaps a sonnet or a limerick, a short poem about strong walls and high towers and powerful inhabitants.</p><p>When they come closer, they see that the main gate is open - someone must have seen them coming. It takes a few more yards for Jaskier to notice that there is a welcome party waiting for them in the entrance into the keep.</p><p>There are men Jaskier has never seen - huge, scarred men, <em> witchers</em>, - waving them in. Yennefer is watching them approach with something akin to amusement in her violet eyes. And the one and only princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon of Cintra takes off running to meet them halfway, squealing, "Geralt, I've missed you!"</p><p>Geralt lets go of Roach and stretches out his arms, relaxes his knees. Jaskier has only a moment to try and make a sense of his posture, and before he manages that, Ciri has already reached the two of them, leaped at Geralt and he has caught her in his arms, hugging her tightly to his chest, her feet well above the ground.</p><p>The sight makes Jaskier <em> feel things</em>. Makes him all warm and bubbly inside, feeling like he could melt any moment, just because he has seen <em> this </em> happen.</p><p>Geralt sets her on the ground, and she squeals, "Jaskier!" and throws herself at him.</p><p>Jaskier does not anticipate the attack, nor does he have as strong footing as Geralt, so he stumbles backwards - before Geralt's big, strong hand catches him and helps him find balance so he and Ciri don't end up in the mud of the trail. When his brain catches up, he wraps his arms around her. Not as tight as Geralt did - he's way too tired for that.</p><p>"Your Royal Highness," he greets her, his tone light. "It's a pleasure to see you again. You've grown up." Even though queen Calanthe was <em>a</em> <em>bit</em> pissed at him for bringing a witcher to Pavetta's betrothal - a witcher that stole away her granddaughter - she couldn't deny that he was the best bard far and wide and begrudgingly asked for his services for almost every cintran feast, like, for example, the young princess' birthdays. And Jaskier thought it was just right if he kept checking on Geralt's child surprise - especially since Geralt never did. He felt a sort of kinship with her - after all, she was Geralt's as much as he was, even though she didn't know it yet - and so he indulged her every time she came up to him with big eyes and asked about his songs and his travels and his lute - he even let her touch it, something he didn't even let Geralt do for a long time.</p><p>"It's just Ciri," she says with a smile, but there is heaviness, weariness in her eyes. She must have gone through a lot of shit. She lost her land, her family, <em> everything</em>. The only thing she has now is her future, in the form of Geralt and Yennefer and an old witchers' keep. Jaskier feels a lot of respect for the young lady in his arms. She's terribly brave. Seems like her and Geralt were a match made in heaven, despite all the fuss Geralt had kicked up about having a child of surprise. "I'm glad you're here. The training is great and all, but I haven't heard a song in <em> weeks</em>."</p><p>Jaskier can imagine that a song is just one of the small comforts she takes to cope with her current situations. That there are things she misses much more than <em> songs</em>, but she knows that she won't ever get those things back, so, at <em> least</em>, she misses a song, something that can quickly be remedied. "Princess, I'll sing you a concert tonight, and I'll sing so loud I'll make the towers <em> shake</em>."</p><p>She laughs, and then Geralt pats Jaskier on the shoulder, and they start walking again, the last few yards into the keep, and Jaskier's heart and tired feet are light. He does not think about leaving. He's incredibly glad to be here.</p><p> </p><p>Geralt and Yennefer greet each other timidly. It is obvious to Jaskier that they have not yet actually talked about their feelings - and he hopes that this, too, he can help Geralt navigate. He’d hate to admit it, but there isn’t really anything <em> bad </em> about Yennefer - except for that bit where she threatened to cut off his balls, but that was <em> ten years ago </em> and maybe Jaskier should finally get over himself - not now, anyway, when she doesn’t hold Geralt’s heart in the palm of her hand. More than that: Yennefer is, maybe, a little amazing. Geralt and Yennefer don’t hug, don’t touch at all, but they exchange a charged <em> look</em>, and Jaskier is pretty sure he sees relief in Yennefer’s purple eyes.</p><p>“Geralt,” she says, and then, with an almost-smile, “Jaskier.”</p><p>“Yennefer,” Jaskier nods. “Never pegged you for the type to settle down in an old witchers’ keep. Doesn’t seem nearly luxurious enough for you.”</p><p>“Coming from you,” Yennefer snorts.</p><p>Jaskier grins, bright and wide. “Ah, you got me there.”</p><p>“So this is Geralt’s famous bard,” says one of the witchers. His hair is dark and short and he… somehow, he looks a little bit younger than Geralt, it’s something in his eyes or in the set of his jaw, but he looks… <em> younger</em>. He takes Jaskier’s hand and shakes it. “Finally, I am meeting the reason I have warm food to eat and a warm bed to sleep in more often than not. You, sir, saved me a great lot of discomfort on the Path.”</p><p>“It was nothing, really…”</p><p>“Lambert,” the witcher says.</p><p>“I just couldn’t handle the senseless prejudice and injustice anymore. I had to do something about it.”</p><p>Behind him, Geralt scoffs, but doesn’t say anything. Geralt knows the truth, or at least must have enough evidence to point him it the direction of truth - that Jaskier’s motivation for writing <em> Toss a coin </em> was, first and foremost, his own horniness, his attraction to Geralt, and everything else was an afterthought.</p><p>Lambert squeezes his hand once more and lets go. He pats Geralt on the back, smiling from ear to ear, clearly amused. By what, Jaskier does not know.</p><p>A witcher with an ugly, big scar on his face steps closer to Jaskier. He also offers his hand and Jaskier takes it. “My name’s Eskel,” the witcher says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”</p><p>“From whom, I wonder,” Jaskier laughs.</p><p>“From Geralt, of course.”</p><p><em> That </em> did not occur to him. Jaskier feels himself freeze. He doesn’t even notice Eskel’s hand slipping out of his grip, but then he’s also at Geralt’s side, an arm thrown over his shoulder, grinning wickedly. Geralt, sandwiched between his two brothers in arms, looks like he’d very much like to be anywhere else on the Continent.</p><p>“Geralt,” Lambert says in stage whisper, “we know that the road had been long and perilous and all that - and to show you how much we care about you, we got you a little gift.”</p><p>Geralt groans.</p><p>Eskel reaches into his pants pocket and procures a glass bottle of something. Jaskier doesn’t see the contents from where he’s standing, but Geralt <em> does </em> and his face does a very funny thing.</p><p>"You and your little bard, to be exact," Lambert continues, fighting a laugh. "And if even this much won't be enough to tame the <em> big </em> White Wolf - humans are rather fragile, after all - there is more in the kitchen - "</p><p>Geralt finally comes to and smacks Lambert upside the head, meanwhile the other witcher just laughs out loud. "Not in front of Ciri, you absolute lummox," he hisses, but he snatches the bottle from Eskel's hand regardless. He shoves Lambert once again, for good measure. "Fuck you."</p><p>Jaskier catches sight of the contents of the bottle - <em> oil</em>. He feels his cheeks heat up. And when he looks closely, Geralt is blushing as well - well, as much as his complexion allows.</p><p>"Uh-uh," Eskel smirks, "I don't think your bard would like that."</p><p>Geralt turns to him, lips a thin line. "I thought you would be more mature than this."</p><p>"Oh, Geralt, this is a <em> very </em> mature situation," Eskel shoots back, and neatly ducks out of the way of another smack.</p><p>"Enough," the last member of their little welcome party orders. A witcher, older than the rest of them, judging by his greying hair and wrinkles - and <em> something </em> in his posture, in the way he holds himself - he's radiating authority, but the corners of his mouth are curled in an amused almost-smile as he says, "Barely a few minutes together and you are already acting like a bunch of teenagers."</p><p>"Sorry, Vesemir," Eskel says, and he does not sound apologetic in the slightest.</p><p>"They started it," Geralt grunts from where he's giving Lambert - who's still giggling - a noogie.</p><p>"Doesn't matter, I'm finishing it."</p><p>Begrudgingly, Geralt lets Lambert go, and Lambert finally schools his face into a neutral expression. They both look sheepishly look at the tips of their shoes. They look like kids that got caught with their hand in the cookie jar.</p><p>Vesemir, too, shakes Jaskier's hand. His grip is firm but not tight. "Excuse them," he says, "they usually aren't this embarrassing. It is an honour to welcome you at Kaer Morhen."</p><p>"Thank you for having me," Jaskier replies. He knows there is no actual reason for him to be allowed to stay, and the same goes for Yennefer - Ciri, at least, has earned her stay thanks to her bond to Geralt - but Geralt <em> wanted </em>him here and the other witchers had decided to let Geralt have his way. To let Geralt bring his whole ragtag family here. "Thank you so much."</p><p> </p><p>“Finally home,” Jaskier sighs, as he plops on the bed in Geralt’s room. His pack and his lute, in its case, rest against one of the stone walls, because Jaskier was unsure of where to put them. This was <em> Geralt’s </em> space first and <em> their </em> space second, and he does not want to jeopardize it. He does not want to make Geralt feel uncomfortable, to make him feel attacked, threatened. He does not want to be an invasive element, not in Geralt’s intimate space. He lies on his back, hands under his head and a warm, easy smile on his face.</p><p>“You realize - “ Geralt starts, careful. His voice is soft and unsure. “You <em> do </em> realize we will set off again? After the snow melts, or maybe later, depending on Ciri’s progress, but - I can’t stay here, not forever. The call of the Path is hard to ignore.”</p><p>Jaskier laughs. Geralt could be so <em> dense </em> sometimes. He’s being dense right now, thinking that Jaskier really wants to settle down. Thinking that Jaskier wishes nothing else but to loiter around Kaer Morhen for the rest of his life, rather than to follow Geralt all over the Continent, from contract to contract, until the soles of his feet bleed, his legs give out and his heart stops beating. And this is not only about Geralt - it’s not that Jaskier would settle down, if only he had not tied his heart and soul to the eternal traveler - Jaskier likes to wander, has been on his feet, with a few stops here and there, for most of his life - no, even without Geralt, Jaskier would travel from town to town, from village to village, singing to anyone that would care to listen, singing until his throat was raw and aching, until his voice left him. It’s just that with Geralt, he has company. Company and a given direction and a muse.</p><p>He beckons Geralt to come closer, and, still smiling, wide and bright, he whispers, just enough for Geralt to hear: "<em>You do realize</em> that <em>my</em> <em>home</em> is wherever you are?"</p><p>Geralt inhales sharply. Jaskier reaches for him and pulls him down until they are both lying on Geralt’s bed, face to face, on their sides. He kisses Geralt. Not on his mouth, not at first, but on his forehead, on the line of his brow, on his eyelids, on the tip of his nose, on his cheekbones, on his cheeks, on his chin, on the very corners of his mouth. With each feather-light kiss, he feels Geralt melting under him, softening, until he finally brushes their lips together and Geralt lets out a sound that can only be called a <em> sob</em>. “My home is wherever you are,” he repeats. “My home is wherever the White Wolf walks. <em> You </em> are my <em> home</em>, Geralt.”</p><p>Geralt crashes their lips together. He kisses Jaskier like one would pray. Kisses him with an all-consuming reverence and blind devotion. He kisses Jaskier like he adores him, like he worships him - and, Jaskier realizes, that probably means he actually does. Geralt kisses him like Jaskier is a shiny idol on a high pedestal and Geralt’s trying to be absolved of his sins.</p><p>But between the two of them, all is already forgiven and forgotten.</p><p>“I love you,” Geralt breathes.</p><p>Jaskier’s heart stops and resets. His breath catches. And <em> fuck</em>, there are tears stinging his eyes, <em> again</em>, but it’s okay because Geralt’s eyes are also wet and <em> gods</em>, is Geralt crying? Is Geralt crying because he’s finally telling Jaskier he loves him?</p><p>“I love you too,” Jaskier says between kisses. “Always have, always will.”</p><p>Geralt <em> purrs</em>, and Jaskier feels it against his chest, feels it resonate in his bones. Geralt pulls him closer, closer still, until they melt into each other, until their contours blur together, until neither of them know where one ends and the other begins. Jaskier sings and Geralt worships him, and together, they pray for a tomorrow just like this, easy, uncomplicated, full of love.</p><p>And they lose themselves in each other. </p><p> </p><p>Geralt is roused from his sleep at the crack of dawn, by a quiet melody. Somebody is saying something - no, <em> singing</em>. At Kaer Morhen, singing is unusual, and the soft sound of the strings of a lute being picked even moreso.</p><p>
  <em> Jaskier. </em>
</p><p>Jaskier is playing, and singing, at the crack of dawn, in Geralt’s room at Kaer Morhen, in his godsdamn <em> bed</em>.</p><p>His voice is low and still tender from sleep, he must have woken up just a short time ago. The melody he plays would be strangely melancholic, if it weren’t so <em> hopeful</em>. So full of love, and happiness, and content. Brimming with dreams and promises and vows and confessions. A plea and a blessing at once. Geralt likes this one, a lot.</p><p>Geralt hums along with the melody, quiet enough that he doesn’t disturb Jaskier, but loud enough to let him know he’s with him. When he focuses enough to pick up the words, he decides to take this small - huge - oath along with Jaskier.</p><p><em> “With each year, our color fades, </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Slowly, our paint chips away. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> But we will find the strength </em><br/>
<em> and the nerve it takes </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> to repaint </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> and repaint </em><br/>
<em> and repaint </em><br/>
<em>every day.”</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yes I made Jaskier sing a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xwg6qRkgOkU">Sleeping At Last song</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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